I don't know where all of the ice came from, but there is ice on the
ground here in Tuscaloosa and it is making everyone nervous. Tuscaloosa
rests on a river. We are familiar with water confined to a streambed
armored with rocks. I offered to make someone tea and they were upset
at the steam shooting out from the kettle—I asked if they
were distracted by the whistle of the boil, but the tone, they said,
reminded them of the trains that run through town every few hours.
They've slept through that noise before, they said, and I
nodded—I have too. I too became distrusting of the malleable
forms of it all: the crushed ice at the bottom of a cup, the
condensation on the mirror. I too know that the river is to the north
of where I sleep: the water as lateral as my body in bed. The trains,
unfrozen to the east.
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Read BO's "Two Tuscaloosa Craigslist Missed Connections."
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